Here lie the bones of our beginning. No flesh pressed around them, no strained muscle or arched, aching nerve asking to be felt, to be seen. Just bones, bare. A scattering of calcified possibility, clean and cold, with no cracks through.
The only way out is through they say, but sometimes the ending happens too soon. I was only at the start of you. Just learning to read the line of your jaw and the set of your mouth. A tentative translation of your every, and your nothing.
Nothing comes from nothing, this too they say. But I have always known that potential contains its own kind of miss, its own kind of mourn. That you can still lose that which could have, should have, might.
We might have put flesh to bone. We might have strained and arched and ached toward each other. Pressed down and around the bare to warm that clean and cold. We might have cracked through to something new.
To that making of me – and you.
“Nothing real can be threatened…”